


To Sunder

by Illegible_Scribble



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending?, Hurt, M/M, Post-Quest, Slight Comfort, Tol Eressëa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-06 18:30:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13417101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illegible_Scribble/pseuds/Illegible_Scribble
Summary: Sundersun·dersəndərverbliterarySplit apart."The Sea that sunders beloveds from one another."After crossing the Sundering Sea to the Undying Lands, Frodo realizes that finding peace and becoming healed are not synonymous. Many years later, Sam learns that the Blessed Realm does not confer all its name suggests, nor does it guarantee a happily ever after.





	1. Frodo: Peace without Healing

The halls of wood and stone, encompassed now by darkness and solitude, had in the past been ones he had known, some well, others not (in fact, he'd wished to forget many), and now in the hazy world of the present where time seemed to both slip away from him as sand through fingers, and yet also move as a glacier, he learned these halls better than he ever wished to know.  
  
With a glittering glass star in his pocket (the light of the brightest Elven star, bottled in glass, and bestowed upon him by the fairest Lady of the land) from the start, this journey had begun in a nightmarish copy of the great smial (the dwellings of halflings: warrens dug in hills, lined luxuriously with wood and filled with fine furniture) of Brandy Hall from his youth, the winding burrows and great halls exact replicas from his younger days, save for the lack of any living creature, himself besides. It had begun at the front door, on a shadowy evening where the moon did not shine, and immediately he had known he must run, but whether to look for something or to escape it, he did not know. Unaware of the star in his pocket, then, he had begun a fearful pace through the round wooden rooms, first calling in fear for his parents, for he was frightened and all alone in the dark, only to later recall with cold remembrance a veil of water had sundered them from him. His next resort was to call out for his aunts, uncles and older cousins, running from the abandoned, simpler apartments of the smaller families, to the larger, grander ones of the Master of Buckland and the Mistress and their closest relations.  
  
Again, he found not a fiber of dust he himself had not disturbed, and feeling so small and alone, he at last began to search for even his peers and younger cousins, and finally for anyone as he ran through the larders and dug through broom closets, crying until even his voice left him. Until, after a long, fruitless search for any living creature, he had collapsed in his own old room, pressed close upon by shadows from every side. It took him much time to resign himself - but only following a final, desperate attempt to explore every cranny of the smial – to realize that he was indeed alone in the darkness.  
  
It was only after he had begun to wander the halls in more calm resignation that he eventually noticed a light glimmering from his pocket, and upon withdrawing it, in his hands he held a star - the light of Eärendil, the brightest and dearest star of the Elves, given to him by the Lady Galadriel. He held it aloft, the purity of its white light piercing through the solitary darkness surrounding him, and before him he found illuminated a door he had not known before. Knowing there was nothing left for him in the home of his childhood, he gripped the handle - in the center of the door, in true hobbit fashion - and passed through, the star-glass glimmering brightly in his hand.  
  
He had then found himself in the smaller, but more familiar and beloved halls of his favorite uncle's estate, Bag End. It was as he remembered from the days before he came of age, and Bilbo had left to fulfill his longing for the road once more. Yet despite these comforts, he was possessed again by a drive - but to flee or find, once more he could not discern.  
  
As he searched the rooms with a sense of desperation, pawing through trunks filled with artifacts and knick-knacks from his uncle's adventures, he felt somehow decidedly aware he was looking for something. Eventually, after scouring the interior, and finally passing by the windows of the smial, he saw the darkened garden beyond, withered and strangled with harsh, thorn-covered plants, and knew he would not find it here.  
  
Feeling a pull deeper into the earth of the Hill, he went to what had been fashioned as Bag End's cellar, though when he passed the threshold of the door, he found no beer barrels nor wine casks: only a deep pain in his left shoulder, the stale stench of death, the pungent odor of orc, and the overwhelming loss of all hope.  
  
He knew this next place, though he had seen it but once with waking eyes - the cavernous stone halls, the ornate statues and carvings in the floor and walls, the winding maze of tunnels and passages, the reek of black-landers, and the armor-clad skeletons of dwarven warriors that had fallen long ago.  
  
He had first begun at a frenzied run, feeling a desperate urgency to escape from this lightless realm, but the floor was no longer smooth with occasional cracks; it was broken rubble and sharp, cutting his bare feet and leaving them slick with blood as he ran. He lost himself countless times as he tried to recall the way a bent old wizard had lead the Fellowship through the massive labyrinth, stumbling more than once and bloodying his knees, forearms and palms upon the unforgiving stone below when he fell.  
  
For once, he found some relief in a lack of company, for he found no orcs and no skeletal dwarves rising from the dead to meet and torment him - but he was followed, not only by the urge to run, in spite of his desire to slow and make more calculated movements, but also by an old melody echoing from the heart of the mountain. It was the voice of Gimli, it seemed, murmuring indistinctly about the forefather of all dwarves, and his emergence into a yet unstained world.  
  
It felt to be ages before he finally found the sarcophagus of Balin, Son of Fundin, Lord of Moria, the several adjoining chambers Gandalf had once defended from a demon of earlier ages of the world, and finally to the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. Once, he had run across this bridge in a terrified flight for his life, and then watched a dear friend and mentor make a bright stand against shadow and darkness, only to be drawn down into the abyss by it. Now, holding up the smeared phial, his crossing of the unbroken bridge was slow and weary, bloody footprints marking his path as he passed over the chasm.  
  
The smell and sights that had greeted him beyond the halls of Moria had been no more pleasant, for the foul, sickly-sweet odor of the Dead Marshes pervaded his nostrils, and above, it seemed as though the sky had been blackened completely, or had been taken away altogether.  
  
The murky water that sloshed over his bloodied feet had been bone-chilling cold, but even with the light of the star-glass, he could not find a way that avoided it - indeed, many times he discovered deep pitfalls concealed by the water, and ended up soaked sometimes to the shoulders before he could climb out again.  
  
The ghost-lights that flickered from pool to pool - manifestations of the spirits lingering, entombed for eternity in the fetid waters here - glimmered like to the star-glass, only dimmer, and these lights danced upon the water in a thin mimicry of a star-filled sky, and gave him no comfort.  
  
Much of his haste had been sapped as his goal approached - whether from behind or closing in ahead - and so the journey through the marsh was much as it had been long ago: a slow, exhausting, excruciating trudge. It was worse than before, however, for he was alone, and had not moon, stars nor sun to comfort him; only the Lady's glass, and the spirit lights that beckoned him to a watery grave.  
  
When his mind had passed from spite and anger of the trek, to eventual acceptance as he plodded along, the ground beneath his feet began to solidify, first to firmer, dryer soil, and then at last to stone, as a cavern closed up and around him once more, but this time, there were no songs to guide him, and no sword in his hand. Only a path to follow, with wide, yawning openings in the walls that ate up the star-glass's light, and webbing that clung to him as he passed beneath and through it. The smell here was even worse than the halls of Moria, for the stench of death and rot was far fresher, and a fouler smell of evil pervaded through it all.  
  
He hurried at a brisk pace, but did not run, holding in one hand the light, while the other traced along the wall as his guide, for he had no other company. The back of his neck had begun to sting as he pressed on, anxiety alighting within him as it felt many pairs of foul eyes were boring in to him.  
  
He lost his way several times in his haste, and only upon slowing and making his way carefully through the frightening cavern - in spite of his fears of pursuit and desperation to escape - did he find the exit, now without barrier. He hurried out of the dreaded tunnel and whirled about, expecting to see the massive, grotesque form of a giant spider creeping out of a higher tunnel to come and claim him, with a single sharp kiss into unconsciousness. To his surprise, he caught only a glimpse of the cavern behind him, before it vanished, and in its place a flat, though no less harsh and cruel landscape rose up, covered in scraggly plants desperate to survive, with massive forge-fires flickering in the distance, and an empty sky overhead.  
  
Exhausted, weary, and no small bit of frightened, he turned east, and allowed the star-filled hand to fall to his side as the spitting light of the mountain of doom danced and crackled in the distance. A tear glistened upon the lashes of one eye as he took his first step towards the Mountain, and fell harshly to his knees.

  
\--  
  


He awoke with stinging knees to an insistent rapping upon his door, and the soft, ever-present rolling of the ocean on the edges of his hearing. "Come now, Frodo-lad, you've slept in quite enough to let me fix breakfast alone! The least you might do is eat it with me!"  
  
A crack of sunlight peeped through the drawn curtains as Frodo Baggins reluctantly pushed himself into a sitting position on his bed. With the heel of his palm he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and reflected for a moment on the latest stage of this reoccurring dream of his; it had been the first time he had passed Shelob's lair, and made it to the Plateau of Gorgoroth. Once, he might have felt fear at the dryness of his mouth and throat and hunger in his stomach when he awoke - so much what he had felt when upon crossing it before - but it was something he had risen to many times in the years this dream had pervaded his sleeping mind, and now it bothered him little. Any weight upon his neck felt blessedly lessened that it had once been, and the wounds to shoulder and neck had begun to hurt less with each morn he progressed, and so these reminders of his discomfort in the mornings were fair trade for less pain upon his injuries.  
  
"Yes, Uncle. I'm coming. I apologize leaving all the preparations to you." With a bit of reluctant effort, for the bed was so invitingly comfortable, Frodo pushed away the sheets and bedspread, touching his unmarred feet to the floor and stood.  
  
"Ah, just having a go at you, lad. I'll see you in a few minutes." Bilbo replied through the door, his footsteps barely audible as he shuffled down the hall.  
  
With verging on dull routine, Frodo cast off his nightshirt and dressed himself in embroidered, velvety robes more expected of an Elf than a hobbit, cleaned his face and arranged his unruly hair - which now fell beyond his shoulders in an ebony tumble of curls - with a few select braids to keep the more troublesome hair out of his face, if he should be buffeted by a particularly strong wind.  
  
In the passing years since crossing the Great Sea to the Blessed Realm, when he was accompanied by Bilbo, Gandalf, the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Elrond, to land upon the Lonely Isle east of the mainland - Tol Eressëa - Frodo had progressively begun adapting more and more to Elvish culture, far more than his devotedly-hobbit uncle ever had or would. It had begun with the elegant, but simplistic furniture that served as decor in his room, fine paintings depicting Elvish history on his walls instead of cluttered maps, ordered books on shelves and neatly arranged parchment and quills upon his desk, as opposed to the messes he'd always kept back in Bag End. While this villa overlooking the rolling waves of the Great Sea was meant to be as accurate to a genuine hobbit hole as possible, Frodo's room was a jarring distinction from the rest of Bilbo's clutter, appearing more the residence of a minor Elf-lord than a homely halfling.  
  
After spending long enough in this Elvish room and with Elvish company, the adaption to the clothing and style of hair had been in some way natural, and in a small way a welcome change, as well - a manner of shedding an old skin Frodo could not quite stand to look at anymore.  
  
With a sweeping motion, Frodo disembarked from his room, robe billowing a little behind him as he strode down the hall to breakfast with his uncle. Bilbo - who was fiddling with the floral centerpiece on the dining table (in the accurately hobbity-style room) - had changed in his time in the Blessed Realm as well, but not so as his nephew did. Instead of taking steps to become something new, Bilbo had managed a miraculous, rejuvenated reversion to a younger, keener hobbit, the grey in his hair and wrinkles seeming to have receded to a point where he appeared sixty or seventy at most; surely not his true age of nearing one hundred and thirty-six. Inversely, the effects of the One Ring that staved off the ravages of time, had begun to wear off of Frodo, and in but (approximately) one decade he appeared to have aged nearly three, the youthful face of his thirties melting away to deeper wrinkles, sorer joints and thinner hair, with streaks of silver running through it. This had once horrified Frodo, but in the more recent years, he could find less and less reason to care about it.  
  
"Good morning, Uncle." Frodo greeted, arranging the last few plates and utensils needed to begin breakfast before he sat down.  
  
"Morning, lad!" was the chipper reply, as Bilbo gave his nephew a sunny smile, and seated himself, reaching first for a bit of toast and next a helping of scrambled eggs. "How did you sleep?"  
  
Frodo idly grabbed a slice of toast for himself, accompanied by a bit of jam. "As ever. Yourself?"  
  
"Fine, fine - better than in years."  
  
This was the usual course of their mornings; a routine greeting, idle chatter about this book or that, a festival the Elves were preparing to throw in the near future, amusing anecdotes Bilbo had managed to stubbornly weasel out of Gandalf recently, and other such small talk. Nearing the end of this particular breakfast, however, as the last of the bacon disappeared and Frodo commented they'd soon need more jam, Bilbo leaned back and gave a contented sigh. "You know, my boy, I think my feet are beginning to itch for the Road again."  
  
Frodo stilled his inspection of what remained in the jam jar, and looked up to his uncle with more intensity in his gaze than he had expressed in quite some time. "You are?"  
  
Bilbo nodded rather cheerfully, ignoring or simply oblivious to much of what could be discerned in Frodo's eyes. "Quite so; this Blessed Realm is surely as it advertises, but I can't help but want for another adventure. A new road to follow, if I can." the old hobbit chuckled.  
  
Keeping his uncle's gaze, Frodo set the jar upon the table with a quiet clink. "You know no roads lead out of the Blessed Realm, and we aren't meant to reach the mainland of Aman."  
  
"No, not even the Hall of Mandos." Bilbo agreed. "Unlike the Elves, we don't stick around here in the afterlife, of course; we go... Well, no one really knows. But I fancy to!" A sparkle of excitement glittered in Bilbo's eyes as he leaned forward. "At least one last adventure for this old burglar, and the greatest adventure of them all!"  
  
Glancing away, Frodo laced his fingers and brought them beneath his chin, settling to contemplate. "If you're ready, Uncle." he said at length.  
  
Frodo received another nod, and Bilbo leaned back again. "Not quite yet, I don't believe, but soon. It's rather that I've run out of things to do, I think; so much seen and done, so much read and written, so much heard and said.... So much love given, and received." Reaching across the table, Bilbo managed to find and grasp one of Frodo's hands, squeezing it tightly as he smiled warmly at his beloved nephew, eyes glittering now with the hint of tears. "It's not my wish to leave you again, my boy, but I need new mountains to climb and new stories to tell."  
  
Frodo placed his free hand - and also his left, and maimed, for it lacked its index finger - over top of his own and Bilbo's. "I've been thinking much the same, as of late. The Elves and Gandalf are boundless in their generosity and guidance concerning- concerning the Ring," Frodo looked down upon his missing finger, "but I find as well that there is little left to do..."  
  
Bilbo squeezed his nephew's hand again, and smiled wistfully. "Ah, but lad, you're not half my age! There's still so much life yet for you to live! No need for you to go tramping after your mad uncle just yet." Bilbo did not mention his wish that Frodo had remained behind in the Shire, just a little longer, before going to the Blessed Realm himself. "After all, why, your Samwise might still yet come! Might take a bit of waiting, but I remember you saying he could-"  
  
Frodo abruptly slid his hands free of his uncle's, his already alabaster face fading to a snow white, and setting firmly. "Sam- Sam _wise_ has a family; many-a-faunt by now and- and a lovely wife that much need him." Frodo's voice was dispassionate, lacking any emotional inflection; if anything, it sounded as though he were calmly reciting facts from a history book. "I don't doubt he'll be mayor soon, if not already. His life is rooted firmly in the Shire, and he is meant to stay; his heart is whole, there. Even- even if he _were_ to come, it would require a great deal of waiting, Uncle." Those massive, rare blue eyes of Frodo's, which had once held admiration and mockery in equal in the Shire, seemed to dull even more than they already had these days. "A _great_ deal. And I think I have done my fair share of waiting: nine years for you take me in after my parents' deaths; only twelve before you left me; seventeen for Gandalf to arrive and tell me of the Ring's true history, and what must be done with it; two years for passage here to the Blessed Realm; and finally, nearing five, for my promised healing. ... I believe I have done quite enough waiting for a lifetime, Uncle. I will not wait for Samwise, who should not and will not come."  
  
With a courteous nod, Frodo pushed back his chair, sweeping out of the room and the smial in a billow of velvet, the door closing with a deep reverberation into the silence of the morning.  
  
Bilbo was left with the dishes, and a broken heart. That seemed all to be left of Frodo, now, he was realizing: dull eyes, nods of courtesy and Elvish departures. Why, anything hobbity and uniquely Frodo seemed to have been washed away in this Blessed Realm; there were flickers, now and again, of the excitable little lad that had begged Bilbo for more stories when he had visited Brandy Hall half a lifetime ago, and also of the noble Ringbearer Bilbo had been proud to help raise, and yet... It seemed now Bilbo had to remind himself that Frodo wasn't an Elvish statue that was enchanted to mimic life; he was still Frodo, and yet... Pieces of him were no longer anywhere to be seen.  
  
Swallowing a lump that had risen in his throat, Bilbo went about cleaning up the dishes, mourning the fact that while it seemed Samwise was one and whole back in the Shire, Frodo was unquestionably not - and if Samwise had followed his master so doggedly into Mordor, of all places, whyever should he not follow on the gentle sail to the Blessed Realm?  
  
Bilbo was left to wonder for the rest of the morning, if this healing of the Ring was truly worth it, and how different things might be for his nephew, if different decisions had been made by them both.

  
\--  
  


That evening, upon Frodo's return from a lengthy walk along the beach, and a visit to the Cottage of Lost Plays to hear recounted a few tales he had heard, and some he had not, he apologized for his outburst that morning, and insisted upon doing the dishes alone for the next few days as a part of his apology. Bilbo attempted to insist this was unnecessary and of course Frodo was forgiven, but Frodo would have none of it.  
  
Thereafter, the following days blurred into weeks and months of the same routines for the Ringbearers, of rising, eating, and wandering with some varied paths across Tol Eressëa, talking to Elves they came across and listening to what tales they could. Bilbo still dabbled in writing, experimenting with new poems and songs and taking critique from the Elvish residents, while Frodo typically read what new material he could find, and did little more than take notes of what he found interesting.  
  
The dreams that caged Frodo's mind nightly had in some ways become even calmer than they had before - he knew the paths to pass easily through Brandy Hall and Bag End; the Mines of Moria no longer cut his feet so, and he remembered the way; the Dead Marshes began to seem just a bit smaller and shallower; and Shelob's lair he knew well, and it certainly held nothing of malice. He had not, however, succeeded in crossing the Plateau of Gorgoroth before waking, either with a start or due to Bilbo rousing him. He had gotten within relative distance of the base of Mount Doom several times, but no closer. It was... Immensely exhausting, and cripplingly lonely, and Frodo feared at times that he might never even reach the mountain. With a touch of guilt, he appreciated now more than ever that Sam had been with him on the Quest proper; if Frodo could not cross the Plateau alone, lacking the Ring in his sleeping mind, he could not have done it in the waking world, with the Ring, had Sam not been with him.  
  
And Sam was a more constant consideration of Frodo's mind than he had been in years. It was an early evening, seated upon a rock on the beach, as the eastern sky was shaded violet and indigo with the approach of night, that Frodo could be found contemplating the gardener and the life he had left behind across the Sea. Bilbo's words from months ago had settled into his thoughts like an itch that Frodo could not scratch - the concept of Sam's absence had stopped bothering Frodo long ago, and he saved himself unnecessary stress by putting the Shire out of his thoughts almost all together; he knew no longer of any goings-on in the Shire, and never would. When he first realized this, there had been a sense of loss, but it had numbed with the passage of time. If his nightly dreams advised him of anything, it was that he was to leave the Shire behind, and whatever awaited him at Mount Doom in his dream was the ending point of his journey.  
  
Yet Bilbo's words still bothered him - of course, on the journey to the Grey Havens, Frodo had offered to Sam the idea that, perhaps, in time, Sam might pass over the Sea as well, but only after Sam had fulfilled his life in the Shire, and done everything Frodo knew he could and ought. The concept of Sam ever leaving the life he had built... Frodo would not at all have said it angered him; instead it felt much... Much like a puzzle piece that, despite all appearances and process of elimination, did not fit in the place it should have. It was slightly off, and bothered Frodo in a way he could not quite articulate.  
  
Idly toying with one of his braids, he sat upon this rock by the Sea, eyes blank and unseeing as he prodded at the idea from several angles in his head. The results he kept circling back to included his discontent that after all the work to save the Shire, Sam would leave it; that the Shire was Sam's home, and everything for him was there, as opposed to nothing in the Blessed Realm; and lastly that Frodo did not think he could bear seeing Sam again.  
  
On this evening upon the lonely shore, the shining white figure of a particular wizard approaching his side, and sitting next to him upon the rock reminded Frodo of every reason why. "Good evening, Gandalf." Frodo murmured, mind still partially absent in his thoughts.  
  
Perhaps, once, when he was younger, Gandalf might have jested whether the evening was good, it was an evening to be good on, or some combination of that and more, but now, older, with his mission fulfilled and ready for his due rest, the wizard replied in quiet simplicity, "Good evening, Frodo."  
  
The two old companions sat together in a shared silence, disturbed only by the rolling of the azure waves, and the crying of the gulls. Time did not seem to pass as it did in Middle-earth, here in the Blessed Realm, and perhaps it was an eternity before Gandalf pulled out his pipe and began to blow smoke rings into the darkening sky. Frodo himself no longer smoked - he had inhaled quite enough smoke in Mordor to satisfy him for a lifetime - but did not mind it when others did, and found it a curiosity when he recognized the scent of Gandalf's smoke. "Old Toby?"  
  
Exhaling a cloud through his nostrils in a slow sigh, Gandalf nodded with a solemn smile. "Indeed it is. Some of the last authentically grown in the Shire."  
  
"I thought you only smoked it on special occasions, and with Bilbo at that."  
  
The wizard chuckled. "Bilbo won't mind; we both smoke it outside each other's company, when we long for those green hills and simple folk, and don't wish to weary one another with our nostalgia."  
  
Frodo's gaze glanced east, before it returned to Gandalf. "You miss it, in spite of being home after those long years away? And now being hailed as the only Istari to have fulfilled his mission?"  
  
"I do, at that." Gandalf exhaled another smoke ring, and sat back for some moments in a reverie of contemplation. "I could not walk the lands of Middle-earth for two thousand years, and not grow attached to the people and places I visited so often. The Shire I was especially fond of, the sheltered little bubble it was; ignorant, perhaps, of those keeping that bubble from bursting, but I believe that ignorance was part of the charm. Everyone was so busy going about their merry business, they hadn't time to grow weary or somber. It was very refreshing to be surrounded by, after spending so much time sorting out such grand troubles... And you Shire-folk were the only ones who ever truly appreciated my fireworks." Perhaps with purposely dramaticized hurt, Gandalf gnawed on the stem of his pipe, and appeared to pout the tiniest bit.  
  
"Its ignorance of world affairs is what made it special." Frodo agreed, oblivious to Gandalf's playful pouting. "Even if it remains as such for all of time, I'm glad it's safe. ... Fully enlighten it of the world, and it wouldn't be the Shire any longer... ... I am still surprised you miss it, I must say."  
  
The wizard's gaze fell from the first emerging stars, down to the small, brave creature beside him. In some frame of time, neither long nor short, Gandalf studied the charge he had been first given to guide and protect, and now to heal, intently and scrupulously. In varying ways, the wizard had observed both before and now, time in Aman had been kind and unkind to the Ringbearer; a light like the Lady's phial seemed to indeed shine through or from him, and it had grown stronger in the years since his arrival on this western shore. But it had concerned Gandalf on this journey of healing with Frodo, that perhaps the light had always been so bright, wherever it came from, but before, Frodo had not been so transparent. There were times the wizard could nearly swear to Manwë that Frodo was no longer living flesh, but chiseled of liquid marble and given a unique luminescence to both mimic life, and yet also display something above, or simply separate from it. He certainly was not the hobbit he used to be, but not in the manner Gandalf had once observed with a chuckle about and to Bilbo, as they returned to the Shire from Erebor. Frodo had done his best to step away from being a hobbit, it seemed, discarding so many of the customs typical and dear to Shire-folk (even at times donning Elvish moccasins), in an attempt to envelop himself in a new life that abandoned his prior. And yet, he was caught in an awkward middle ground none had ever entered before, caught between what he still unchangeably was, and what he now wanted to be. "Do you miss it, Frodo?" The query was posed with a solemnity Gandalf could not be sure Frodo acknowledged or ignored.  
  
In either case, Frodo leaned back and smiled a bittersweet smile, looking to the east as the wind whipped off the water and buffeted his hair. "It wasn't for me any longer, Gandalf. I saved it as I set out to do, and I could not return to it. ... Now, I am here, and know this place is not for me, either." Finding a noticeable comparison in color, between the Sea and Frodo's eyes, Gandalf was brought to study the latter, and found to his displeasure that the supposed windows to a soul were no longer shining with a unique light within; they were dulled and only reflective, like a mirror forgotten and coated with lifetimes of dust. "I know what the Ring has done to me, Gandalf, and I know what the healing has done, as well; rotted parts within me as like an infection, and then the corrosion was burnt away." Frodo touched his unmaimed hand to his chest, gazing sightlessly across the water, vacant amusement on his face. "It is only that nothing is sown nor grows to replace what has been taken away." He smiled again, dully, but with a hint of pleased understanding beneath it. "This is peace, as I wanted when I crossed the Sea. Bilbo has long found his, and speaks of itchy feet and a want to walk the Road again - to see what lies beyond the light of this world. I have nearly found my peace, Gandalf, and my time is soon to come, as well."  
  
Sorrow entered Gandalf's heart, as he had not felt since the deaths of Thorin Oakenshield and his young nephews, and observing the withering state of Bilbo's mind in Rivendell, before they had all departed for the Havens. "Will you not wait for Samwise, Frodo?"  
  
"He is Master of the Hill and has surely dug his roots deep. He is home and whole, Gandalf, as I will never be. I will not wait for him to dock and catch sight of me, only for his healed heart to break at all I could not have, and became without."  
  
"Your absence from this world will break his heart all the same."  
  
"It is better he remembers one who was once young and whole, than reunite with a specter that has lost all that made him himself."  
  
"Is it for you to decide what is best for him, without his council?"  
  
Touching the phial of Galadriel, which lay in a pocket of his robe, against his heart, Frodo considered. "If it spares him undue pain."  
  
"... His love for you carried you both to the forges of Mount Doom."  
  
"His love for the hobbit I was, then. Of which I am no longer. ... I will not let him grieve for a living ghost, when the departed are far easier to mourn." Mind set, Frodo slid down from the rock, and bowed to the wizard. "I thank you for your council, Gandalf."  
  
"Perhaps you are not so changed as you believe." Gandalf offered, before Frodo could turn away.  
  
"I am near at peace. When I come to it, there will be nothing left."  
  
The stars glittered overhead, in quiet observation of the world below them. Gandalf, at last, bowed his head in uttermost respect. "I wish all the best for you, Frodo Baggins. May peace and contentment everlasting grace all of your days and journeys."  
  
"And yours as well, Gandalf. ... ... If... If Sam _should_ come... Will you watch over him for me? And care for him?"  
  
"Until the world is unmade, I will, Frodo."  
  
The two shared a final smile, before they parted, Frodo returning to the smial, leaving Gandalf alone with the ceaseless tide, and the tears that glittered on his proud, sorrowful face.

  
\--  
  


He did find what he had been running both from and to the entire journey. It was not the entryway to the forge, as he had expected upon ascending the side of Mount Doom - in fact, what he saw in its place nearly brought him to his knees in shock, for it wrenched his heart so.  
  
It was not a fearsome, evil archway he beheld, illuminated from within by the fires of the heart of the mountain, calling him deeper with the allure of utmost power.  
  
It was a chipper, round green door, made of wood, with a sparkling brass handle in its center. On either side of it, a small, round window, looking out to the front gardens and the lane of Bagshot Row.  
  
From beyond it, he could hear little ones playing and giggling, gaffers and gammers affectionately getting after them, lively music as one would have during Over-Lithe, and an indistinct swirl of voices. Stumbling to the door and nearly collapsing against it, he gripped the handle and pressed his ear to the door, eyes glittering with tears for the first time in a very long while. He could hear Merry and Pippin jesting about something or other and getting themselves into trouble with their parents, and there was Merry's mother Esmeralda and Pippin's father Paladin getting after them, then praising them for their deeds on the Quest; he could hear his own parents sharing words of affection with one another before calling out to find him- and such a swirl of other voices of family and very old friends that he'd once known so well, in that far green country.  
  
After lengthy minutes of listening to these voices and his heart breaking, Frodo caught one voice that made a distinct pain well in his chest, and the gathering tears finally fall from his lashes. First it had been little Elanor, grown enough to speak with her mother and father, annoyed by all the bother her brothers were giving her. Rosie assured her she was the prettiest maidchild in the Shire, and her little brothers were simply being silly lads, as they were wont to be at their ages.  
  
And then Sam. Sam, simply promising his little girl he'd give his sons a stern talking to about teasing their big sister.  
  
Frodo's grip about the doorknob tightened until his knuckles became white, and his face was contorted in pain. After Elanor departed, the Master and Mistress of the Hill exchanged a few sweet words between each other, Rosie remarking she was very pleased that Bag End's many rooms were finally being filled, and Sam did agree, albeit with some hesitation, confessing he felt something was still missing.  
  
If there were ever a thing to make Frodo turn the handle of that door, it would have been that - in fact, forehead pressed against the green wood and snow-white hand gripping the knob so tightly, he nearly did. But, in spite of his tears and almost unbearable longing, he did not.  
  
When Rosie remarked that he was surely happy across the Sea, and that she needed Sam more anyway, Sam agreed with her affectionately.  
  
Silent in his anguish, Frodo remained pressed against the door as other snippets of his home touched his ears, until his grip upon it began to lax in acceptance, and a cool breeze out of place in Mordor brushed past him.  
  
Turning from the door, red-gold leaves tumbled past his bare feet as the lava-rock around him was replaced with soft, rich earth, and a magnificent deciduous forest grew up around him, the leaves all colors of autumn as they danced in the wind.  
  
There was a path beneath his feet that went on before him for a short distance before it made a bend and hid behind the trees, and from somewhere not far down it, a melody sung by a familiar voice touched his ears.

 _"The Road goes ever on and on_  
_Down from the door where it began._  
_Now far ahead the Road has gone,_  
_And I must follow, if I can,_  
_Pursuing it with eager feet,_  
_Until it joins some larger way,_  
_Where many paths and errands meet._  
_And whither then? I cannot say."_

__

The breeze played gently with his ebon curls - now short and braidless - and to guard against the autumn nip in the air, he pulled his old velvet jacket tighter around him, before shouldering his pack. He glanced once more to the door behind him, the voices beyond now faint and indistinct. He felt a tug upon his heart, but which way, he could not say. His gaze lingered there beyond the door for some moments, shedding more tears, before a thought of old returned to him. _It is not for me any longer._  
  
Thinking this, and knowing it to be true, Frodo turned from the land and lives he had saved, and looked headlong into the growing wind and sound of his uncle's singing. He tasted the salt of the Sea on the air for only a moment, before he broke into a run, crying ahead of him, "Uncle, I'm coming!" and falling into tune with Bilbo's song.  
  
Neither Ringbearer West of the Sea was ever seen or heard from again in that world, and they passed then into only memory and legend.


	2. Sam: An Ending Unexpected

A light, misting rain coated the tall, age-old towers reaching high into the sky above, in a faint, foggy embrace, as the sound of the Sea echoed ceaselessly along the shore. Of all the tall people milling to and fro upon the docks, carrying chests and bags onto a ship built by the legendary Shipwright himself, was a far smaller creature than all the rest, cloaked in an article of their making, but otherwise dressed simply for travel, and lacking distinctly in shoes. His hands, old, sun-spotted and wrinkled, nervously twined a length of silk-like rope of Elvish make between his fingers, as he looked on at the packing, and trembled, but not from the rain. This particular length of rope had been with him on the greater part of the Quest, so long ago, and had served to keep a dear one's cloak safe around him in lands of fire and ash. To keep the rope near was to keep the memory and the person near, it felt.  
  
"'Ee sure you don't need a hand?" he asked of the nearest elf, faintly.  
  
The elegant face that looked back at him offered a smile. "Quite certain, Master Gardener, but we thank you; we have it well-covered. Are you certain you wouldn't like to board, now, and escape the rain?"  
  
Samwise tightened his grip on the rope, unsure of both his mind and answer. Boarding now would be the sensible thing to do, but the Elvish cloak around his shoulders and sheltering his head made the mist a negligible concern, and... In truth, Sam was frightened. To the point where he was struggling not to weep in front of all these tall, fair folk. Before he had arrived, a few days prior, he had convinced himself that he'd quite adequately wept all he could on the trip here, and had no more tears left to him. But, as he watched his dear things from home being loaded on to the ship, he found his fear and sorrow renewed all over again. Leaving the green hills of the Shire for that first time, even to go into Buckland and the Old Forest, had been frightening, certainly, but then it had been exciting and an adventure, with still a confident promise of return. And he had been young.  
  
Now, he was old, and Sam knew with even more certainty than he'd held on the slopes of Mount Doom, all those years ago, that he truly wasn't coming back. And he was leaving more behind, now, than he had when he was young. He had said farewells to his children - most especially Elanor - and... And to Rosie – his anchor, in many ways his other half, who passed just a few months ago, on Mid-Year's day. Her final farewell to him was a restatement of love, and her blessing to at last follow the part of his heart that had sailed across the Sea.  
  
Though the goodbyes brought some sense of solace to him, farewells are words, and they do not lessen the sense of loss when parting from one's beloveds. He wanted, just a little longer, to keep his feet upon Middle-earth - to stay home for but a few breaths, a few heartbeats more - before leaving it for ever.  
  
"I'm fine, thank'ee." he managed at last.  
  
"Of course." was the gracious reply, and the elf turned and resumed carrying and lifting possessions of her kin into the ship that would carry them to the Blessed Realm.  
  
Fearing he might burst into tears if he didn't have some distraction, Sam wandered a short distance away from the dock, heading back towards the denser, city portion of the Havens. He glanced up at the massive, beautiful architecture that made him feel even smaller than he did, now, blinking away the drops of rain that fell into his eyes, admiring what he could of it through his worry.  
  
Not wanting to concern any of the crew or passengers that he might've gotten himself lost, Sam remained ever within the sight of the ship, and did not even wander far until he found himself standing before a fountain. The statue in the center of it - made of what material, Sam could not say - depicted several elves of varying ages standing, sitting or lying around the rock-like center of the figure, from which several different streams of water flowed like waterfalls. The hobbit took another step forward, and peered into the clear depths of the pool, raindrops falling occasionally to send ripples across its surface.  
  
What Sam saw looking back at him - for all the times he had peeped into a looking-glass in the months before he'd left - distressed him. Looking into a glass every day perhaps dulled your notice of the passing of years, but looking at what he could make of his distorting reflection, now, brought Sam's aged knuckles to turn white with the grip he held on his rope. Once, an age ago, this face looking back at him hadn't been so spotty and wrinkled, sagging in the cheeks and the neck as it did, now. And his hair had been blonde, once - though never near so fair as Elanor's - like honey, but now it was a dull, tired grey, much like the clouds that were gathered above the Havens. Sam might've asked himself _When did I grow so old?_ But he already knew the answer; in sixty years of tending to gardens, hauling this or that to another place, rearing thirteen beautiful children, and almost fifty years of serving as mayor, he had grown old. Tugging on the rope he held so steadfastly, he knew with a drop trailing his cheek (whether a tear or rain, it made no matter), that he loved every one of those years and every hobbit that had imprinted so deeply upon his heart, in each year, and that these wrinkles and sags and the aches in his joints were a small price to pay for all the love he'd been given and in turn gave, and yet... It still frightened him, seeing this old toad of a hobbit looking back at him, almost unrecognizable when compared to the face he'd had when he was young and fresh of age. Would... Would _He_ recognize him, was a thought that had begun to bother Sam more and more of late. Of course, when the ship's passengers disembarked and a little creature barely waist-high to the elf-folk stepped onto the docks, there would be little guess as to who he was, yet... Even if he were recognized, what would this new, old face inspire in _Him_? Pity? Horror? Disgust? ... Sam did not really think such thoughts would cross his master's mind, but what impression his face would give still instilled Sam with a sense of anxiety. And what would _He_ look like, now, after so long in the Blessed Realm? Sam had his own fancies, of course (and turned scarlet when thinking of them), but did not know if his master might look old as Sam did, or somehow eternally youthful, as the elves did.  
  
Beginning to lose himself in his thoughts, Sam untangled one hand from his rope, and touched a finger to the surface of the water, losing his wrinkled reflection in a tide of ripples, fearing for what he did not know, and the fact that he was leaving all he did know.  
  
"Master Gardener?" a clear voice called from the ship. "We're nearly ready to leave!" Sam started, several joints popping uncomfortably as he turned back to the ship, and then to his reflection a final time, anxious fear bubbling up inside him like a kettle about to boil over as he made his way back to the ship with trembling steps.  
  
He considered the faces of all his children and grandchildren as he stepped back onto the docks, frantically wiping away the water running down his cheeks. He knew he could back out and instead stay, and go back to the Shire and Bag End and live out the rest of his days there, surrounded by his family and old friends, if he wished. And yet, as the soft rope in his hands left indents where he held it so hard, and the Sea echoed in his ears with the whispered voice of the one he'd loved nearly all his life, he knew full well he had fulfilled his own Quest here in Middle-earth. To step onto the ship would mean he could never return, and at his back would be only the memories of Rosie, his thirteen little ones and _their_ little ones, and Merry and Pippin, Legolas, Gimli and King Aragorn, but before him... Before him on the brightening horizon, was Frodo.  
  
With the help of an elf, Sam made his way up the ramp, and tentatively stepped onto the deck of the ship. He glanced back behind him to the shore, where a group of elves had gathered to send off their loved ones, remembering with painful clarity how it felt to be standing there himself, before he allowed the elf at his side to guide him to his cabin.  
  
It was a fair large thing, he thought, at least for a hobbit, with a bed easily big enough for three of him at the far end of the room, a desk secured to the wall that had been modified so he might be able to use it, with a chair secured to the floor in kind, and against the opposite wall, the chests and few bags of all the possessions he had sought to bring.  
  
The elf parted his company, saying they'd be leaving in a few minutes' time, leaving Sam alone in the very big, square, and frankly unhobbity room. The wood of the place and all the furniture was fine and elegant, as was any elf-made thing - in fact, the curves and grace of it all in some ways reminded Sam of Rivendell - but it was still so large and square compared to a small creature so used to the roundness of hobbit holes. Fiddling with the rope in his hand, Sam thought that he'd not felt so small since the first he'd been in Rivendell.  
  
He ambled over to one of the older, bigger chests, which Bilbo had once kept the treasure he had earned from Erebor in, and with a blush and quick, fiddling hands, Sam pushed open the lid, and beheld the treasures he valued more dearly than any dragon gold. Within, were for the most part things that would have been commonplace to the youth of the Shire, or their parents, albeit all rather old and love-worn, such as stuffed and wooden toys alike, leafs of fragile, yellowed paper that held drawings or little poems made by children's hands, small wood carvings that had to be looked at just right to see what they were supposed to be, pressed flowers... Most all things Sam's little ones had gifted him when they were still little, or the toys they'd passed down to each other that he'd never had the heart to abandon. It was Sam's collection of treasures he would not part with for anything, though he was certain he would perish of embarrassment if any of his children or the elves saw what was inside; he felt so silly and torn for acting like a nostalgic old biddy for holding on to such things. But he loved each little piece even still, for they all were a bit of home he was able to bring with him.  
  
In the top of the lid, he'd managed to attach a few fabric pockets, and from one of them, he withdrew the a red, glass rose, and cradled it in his hand for a few moments, not minding his tears. It had been one of the earliest birthday gifts he had given Rosie after they had wed, and his heart would've broken if he'd not taken it with him.  
  
Elvish voices reached through the door of his cabin, signaling that they'd soon be leaving, inciting Sam to hastily - but no less safely - place the glass rose in his breast pocket - against his heart - close the lid of the chest, and hurry out to the deck, where the sun had broken through the clouds and sent away the rain.  
  
He followed the trail of elves that were making their way to the stern of the ship, to watch Middle-earth disappear from their sight for ever. Though there was already a fair cluster of elves at the rail, they respectfully parted for him (though this made Sam blush and feel far more important than he thought he was), giving him a space to look at the shore, and a crate to stand upon.  
  
Elves on both boat and shore were waving and calling endearments and promises to reunite back and forth, as the boat began to move and draw away from the only land Sam had ever known. His heart felt, somehow, equal parts swollen and empty as it pounded hard against his chest, and he wept openly. It hurt him to know both sides of this parting, to be the one watching the ship dwindle in the distance - alongside the light of Frodo's star-glass, which had been held aloft until it passed the horizon into the Uttermost West - and now, to be on that ship, sailing away from the shore of his home. He looked to the eastern horizon, over the tall towers of the elves and mountains in the distance, clutching the glass rose against his heart and thinking of all the hobbits and big folk he'd grown to love in his time in Middle-earth. Half of him felt an impulse to leap over the rail and attempt a frantic swim back to shore, still not ready to leave all that he was being drawn away from, and the other half... The other half felt the rope still in his palms, heard the whispers in the waves, and knew what direction his heart was being pulled.  
  
Sam stood not alone during the whole while the shore grew ever smaller and smaller in the distance, and until the very last moment, when it finally fell below the horizon for ever, horns could still be heard blowing their farewells.  
  
Elves still lingered, veiled sorrow upon their faces such as Sam had rarely seen, until they encouraged each other to approach the bow. Sam remained for some moments longer at the stern, still crying, before his hand fell from his breast pocket, he bound the rope around one wrist, and followed after the elves. He glanced the oncoming horizon for but a few moments, before he felt overwhelmed and hurried back to his cabin, as quickly as his old bones might take him.

  
\--  
  


The first few days passed more easily than Sam had hoped they might. After a time, he grew comfortable with the rolling of the waves, and he was able to spend his time reading old elvish books he'd brought with him, that had once belonged to Bilbo. His hope was to learn enough Elvish to be comfortable speaking it, as that was surely going to be the common tongue in the Blessed Realm.  
  
He felt brave enough to find a few elves to practice conversing with on a regular basis, though he was still too shy - feeling rather a fish out of water - to spend much time outside his cabin.  
  
Nights, inversely, were almost torture. Sam had carefully spread a number of his treasures from home around his cabin, as reminders and comfort, and most mornings when he awoke, to look upon them and reflect on the thoughts that had crossed his mind in the night, brought both a sense of comfort and guilt. To think such things as he did when asleep... Was it proper when he still carried so much of home in his heart?  
  
During these nights on the rolling Sea, Sam's unconscious mind wandered unbidden to places Sam desperately wished it wouldn't. He had known long that the relationship he shared with Frodo was unique, and not of any sort he shared with another hobbit. From the beginning, when Sam had been a small thing and young Mister Frodo had come to live at Bag End with his uncle, the lad had been nothing less than enchanted by the foreign Bucklander. He was paler than most any hobbit Sam knew, with a storm of ebony curls and bright blue eyes that Sam thought must've been just like the jewels rumored to be filling Mister Bilbo's cellars, from the treasury of Erebor. Sam had always been partial to fairy-stories, but with the presence of this fey creature gracing Bag End's halls, the lad was instantly enamored to the theory that some Took generations ago had taken a fairy wife - how else could such a hobbit be so fair? Fairness was rare at best in hobbits, especially to such a degree that Frodo had.  
  
A young Sam fell all the more under the fairy-hobbit's spell when it turned out Frodo liked elves and stories of adventures in far-off lands just as much as Mister Bilbo and Sam himself did, and so, on many evenings Frodo would read such stories to him, and help Sam learn to read himself, as well as to write.  
  
For many years, Sam looked up to the young Mister Baggins of Bag End as one of the most fantastic and brilliant hobbits he knew, rivaled only by Mister Bilbo. It wasn't until Frodo was approaching his coming-of-age, and Sam was in the end of his teens, that he'd first heard sniggering gossip about the second 'Mad Baggins' of the Hill; not only about how odd he was with his books (which was standard tittering; Hobbiton folk are not often book-learned), but also how queer with his reserved social life. Why, he barely seemed to have any at all, some mentioned, and there were many scheming lasses that sought to change that, and perhaps become the first Mistress of the Hill since Bilbo's mother, Belladonna. Overhearing this sudden linkage of the fair Mister Frodo to intimate acts gave a teen-aged and very excitable Sam a great deal to think about during the night, once he'd had time to work through his initial shock at the idea. At the time, he'd been concerned to only keep it private to himself - Sam knew plenty of other lads already caroused with each other, to prevent an accidental babe and a hasty wedding - and surely, only _thinking_ about doing something, wasn't near so naughty as _actually_ doing it. But, as years passed, those excitable feelings of his youth changed.  
  
As both he and Frodo grew - Sam into a collected, respectable working lad, and Frodo into the esteemed and graceful Master of the Hill (who could even handle his grouchy Aunt Lobelia without losing his temper) - Sam's feelings were... Tempered and refined, into something much calmer and responsible. Though there were lasses that had recaptured his fancy, he was still quite aware of Frodo's unique, elf-like fairness, and simply promised himself that if Frodo ever asked... Well. It seemed only a natural progression, for Sam, for after all he took care of Bag End, and to take care of its Master as well, was a thought that Sam believed perfectly sensible. Especially during, and after... After the Quest, Sam felt but a step away from doing anything for his Master, for he practically already had, and was only waiting for Frodo's word. But it was a word never given, or, leastways, not before Rosie had been there, with her shining eyes and her father remarking that Sam truly was a splendid lad, and then... And then all of that splendor of Frodo's had been locked away in his study to wither away, where Sam could not reach him, until Frodo sailed off across the Sundering Sea, parting them for these sixty long years.  
  
In the time after he had gone, Sam had mourned long for his master and friend, until his grief lessened and he focused upon the life Frodo had given him, for a great number of years. It took Sam several decades to recall the thought, _If only you had said, Frodo_ , and to finally counter it with, _If only_ I _had said_. And at that, Sam's heart had broken all over again, with the ache of all the things the Ring had taken from Frodo and all Sam could not give back to him. Of course, it had never been Sam's fault, but the anguish awoke anew, of the day Frodo went West, holding and kissing his gardener a final time upon the brow, when Sam had not held him with ferocity enough to ground him in that world and insist upon carving out a place where Frodo would be happy - even though there was no happiness left for Frodo in the Shire.  
  
With this new thought, as his reawakened grief subsided, Sam recalled the old feelings for his master that he'd buried deep, considered Frodo now in the land of Elves, and though it embarrassed him to ever think of another when he had the loveliest wife in the Shire, and so many beautiful children, there were times he could not help the wandering of his mind. What tortured him so in these nights on the rolling Sea, were those very same thoughts, only expanded and with more lavish detail; he was still much divided on how to view his own thoughts, but defended them with the consideration that he was no longer in Middle-earth, and Rosie had had him for a good many years, and passed peacefully. Surely... Surely she wouldn't mind...?  
  
In his dreams, Sam was not so thick to think Frodo would still appear the same young creature of his thirties, instead thinking it reasonable for him to look older and perhaps even wrinkled - but elegant and wise, just more deeply chiseled and refined, as Sam had thought of him on that fine day in Ithilien. A silvery cascade of moonlight rippling down his shoulders would replace his once-ebony curls, and all of his scars would be healed, with the gleam in his eye telling he was happy. In these subconscious visions of fancy, this moon-kissed creature, made of stardust and gossamer and blessed to life by elves, wove through Sam's dreams like the whispers of the Sea, robed in blue-green silk and satin hemmed with gold, and would brush against and embrace him, murmuring adoring endearments as he loved Sam so sweetly.  
  
Sam would awaken from these dreams in a tangle of sweat and sheets, blushing so hot he was half-convinced every morning he would burn his pillow, frightened to think so intimately of Frodo, who might not even, nor ever return his feelings. He was shamed as well to think of such things of anyone else besides his wife, though it was true she had passed on. Her memory plagued him in the night, as well, striving for attention, it seemed, with this celestial re-imagining of Frodo, leaving Sam's heart torn in two, as he realized it had always been.  
  
He wondered often if there would ever be a time he could consider himself full and properly whole. He hoped, in his heart of hearts, he would be, upon landing on this distant shore, even if Frodo didn't return his feelings. To know what Frodo felt at all would be a great weight lifted from Sam's weary heart.

  
\--  
  


As the days passed on, Sam slowly grew bolder with his ventures outside his cabin, conversing with and getting to know a number of the other passengers, and feeling a bit surer in his grasp of the elven tongue. Most evenings, he began to learn, they spent either on the deck of the ship or in the dining area, singing and playing instruments or telling stories (and sometimes both at the same time, stories being told through song), and in a large way this made the journey far more bearable, though Sam still felt so out of place, especially being given a place of honor among them.  
  
Several times throughout the trip, the lay of 'Nine-Fingered Frodo and the Ring of Doom' was sung (in Westron, no less, as handed to the Elves by the Men of Gondor), and upon hearing it now, it brought Sam an emptier feeling than the shocked joy he had felt when he first heard it. The queries from the elves, of how true the words were typically pulled Sam out of any prospect of completely falling to tears. While reliving the events - especially the weight Frodo bore - was stressing, he was able to manage it, and in some way it felt a slight relief to discuss it again. Though, he still flustered over-much when he was commended at all for his deeds in the War of the Ring.  
  
On one of the numerous sunny days, when the ocean was calm and the water was glinting almost merrily, Sam had wandered to the bow of the ship to gaze westwards, trailing the rope through his fingers as he wondered how much longer the trip might be. At some point an Elven lady had wandered up to his side to look forward with him, her hair tumbling in the wind like honey-colored waves. She and Sam had spoken fairly frequently, and he liked her company; she was pleasant and witty, but also observant and kind to her kin that showed homesickness for Middle-earth, and to Sam for the same. Her name was Lemben – meaning 'sweet, or tuneful one', she had explained - in part for her fair singing voice, which she shared on many evenings. "Good afternoon, Master Samwise." her voice was pleasant, and Sam didn't have to turn to know she was smiling.  
  
Out of habit, Sam went to tip a hat he didn't have. "Afternoon, Miss Lemben. Right pretty day, it is."  
  
"It is! The Sun is shining and the taste of the Sea is in the air. The gulls are too far for us to hear their cries, but somewhere, their calls echo across the waves. A fine day indeed."  
  
The two remained silent for a time, simply staring at the horizon that never grew closer nor father, until Sam queried, rather shyly, "How much longer, d'you think? 'Til- 'til we get there, that is?"  
  
Lemben hummed thoughtfully, not breaking her gaze from the horizon. "Days, at least." she replied after some minutes. "We can ask the captain, later."  
  
"Aye." Sam nodded in absence, before asking another question at length. "If I can ask it, Miss... How is it you Elves stand it? Only goin' home in bunches, an' not all together? Don't... Don't you miss each other, bein' so far apart for so long?"  
  
A sigh preceded Lemben's words. "I've wondered that myself, at times. ... I suppose, perhaps, it's different for Elves than it is for Men or Halflings. Near everything is an eventuality, and Elves are able to appreciate this; it is an eventuality a tended seed will grow, and the plant it becomes will die. If the plant is a flower, it is an eventuality mortals can see, but if it is a tree, that is an eventuality only Elves can appreciate, for our longevity. We are able to appreciate most all eventualities, whether it be the death of a tree... Or a mortal friend, or that we _will_ see each other again. To wait an Age is not much to ask of an Elf.  
  
"... The Sea calls us all at different times, yet it still calls us all. There are a few that find a calling even greater than It, but they are rare and known of long in advance, it seems."  
  
Sam thought it still appeared a horridly lonely existence, waiting for each other across an entire sea, for who-knows-how-long, though he didn't mention that. Even thinking of it, and knowing Frodo and Bilbo had endured it for so long made his heart hurt too much. "You lookin' forward to gettin' there?"  
  
"Yes. Across the water lie my parents and brother, and I've not seen them for a half-century. Others have waited far longer, though my youth and impatience make me anxious to arrive."  
  
An impatient Elf - especially one that seemed so calm, as Lemben did - struck Sam as a near-inconceivable notion, though again he did not say anything. He did shake his head a little at the thought that there were some elves that had waited much longer than fifty years to reunite, for such a concept seemed almost more painful than his own situation, but perhaps that was simply because he was mortal, and a plain small hobbit from the Shire. "Aye." he agreed faintly, twining the rope through his fingers and squeezing it.

  
\--  
  


The celebrations when gulls could be heard from a near shore, and The Lonely Isle could at last be seen on the horizon were fantastic - songs and music echoed across the waves day and night, and even better food and drink was shared a-plenty than had been offered in the earlier stages of the trip.  
  
Sam's dreams had done little to quell the stress and division that had opened in his heart, for they still embarrassed and befuddled him, though the sight of the gleaming, pearly spires in the distance put some rest to his troubled mind. Yet, the parts of his heart that were not put to rest, were a swollen torrent of emotions at the thought that, at long last, his journey was near complete. And, perhaps it would be a matter of a few hours until he was able to hold his master again, for the first time in sixty years. And he hadn't the faintest idea what to say.

  
\--  
  


The city of Avallonë gleamed like a thousand pearls as the ship drew closer to shore, its milky spires reaching skywards as if to pierce the heavens, broken up here and there by _mallorn_ trees so old and ancient, some near rivaled the towers - and Sam's heart ached to see them, and remember Lothlórien, but even more, the Party Tree.  
  
Elves of all heights and shades of hair were milling about the city and gathering at the docks, waving and crying welcomes to the newcomers, quite like the ship's passengers, most all of them clustering at the bow's rails and calling back in kind. Sam stood with them, trembling and doing his best not to weep from his stress, though his success was only partial at best, and his vision was blurred in trying to hunt for two small figures somewhere on the docks.  
  
The final few hours of approach seemed the most dreadful and longest, and Sam's heart was practically in his throat by the time the boat stilled, the crew began to organize themselves to disembark the ship, and the gangway was lowered.  
  
Sam was terrified anew of what was going to happen when he stepped on to the docks - remembering again all he had left behind, and his fright at not having spotted any hobbit-like figures on the shore - and he wanted to hang behind and be one of the last off the ship. However, his things were among the first carried off, and he was escorted down the ramp soon after, with honors. He felt a mess with such fine elves on either side of him, guiding a little bent, knobby, and verging-on-tears halfling through an aisle made of their bowing kindred - it had been so long since he had last received honors as like this, from folk like this, he was overwhelmed to say the least.  
  
At the end of the dock, standing upon the polished white stones of the city, the small sea of elves that parted for and bowed to Sam as he passed, ceased, and before him stood three tall figures he had not seen for an Age past.  
  
A faint light hung about a hand of each of them, and that alone would have been tell enough that they were the Elven Ring-bearers, even if Sam hadn't recognized them. The right-most figure to Sam was robed in wine-purples and a simple circlet was upon his brow, his face ever-stern, yet kind: the Lord Elrond of Rivendell. The center figure seemed even more heavenly than the first time Sam had seen her, the light in her golden hair appearing brighter than ever, and the smile she gave him nearly made Sam melt with awe: Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien. In spite of the splendor of the two mighty Elves before him, Sam couldn't deny himself the relief he saw at the leftmost figure, bearded and dressed in white, leaning upon his staff and looking warmly upon Sam: it was Gandalf, Gandalf the White.  
  
If Sam had had any words upon being brought before these three, they were lost when they bowed simultaneously to him - he had been honored plenty, years ago by Men and his kin, but to have three of the fairest of the Kindred bow before _him_ was nearly more than he could take. He was trembling and feared a fall by the time they rose, unsure if his old body could withstand this much honor and excitement - especially when the Lady smiled at him again. "Welcome, Samwise Gardener, last of the Ring-bearers to cross the Great Sea. Your arrival has been long awaited, and we are honored to house you."  
  
"Th-thank'ee." was all Sam could manage, relieved she was speaking Westron.  
  
"It is fair indeed to see you again, Master Samwise. I hope your journey was not unpleasant?" queried Elrond, while the last of Sam's things were settled near him.  
  
"T'was quite fine indeed, Sir." It wasn't exactly a lie; the ship itself, its accommodations and company were all perfectly lovely; it had been Sam's thoughts that had troubled him the most.  
  
Gandalf, to Sam's immeasurable relief, was not so formal or tall about his greeting; he chuckled, came forward and knelt to pull Sam into an embrace. "Ah, Samwise! It's been far too long, my lad!" With a gentle hand, he patted Sam's shoulder, before withdrawing to give the hobbit a good look. "For what, seventy? You look splendid."  
  
Sam colored. "Really- a hundred an' two, Sir, but I thank'ee - don't suppose it make no nevermind here, anyhow." He was anxious to ask where Bilbo and Frodo were - it was perfectly lovely to be greeted by such mighty folk, but it wasn't for them that Sam had come. However, he felt, for the moment, he'd surely get an answer in due time, and he didn't want to be rude.  
  
A shadow of trouble passed over Gandalf's face, but it lasted only a moment before he brightened again. "No, I suppose not. Well, I'd imagine you're rather tired from the journey, and might like a bit of rest on dry land?"  
  
Sam nodded a bit more quickly than he'd intended - it wasn't so much that he was tired, rather more that if it meant getting out of sight of all these tall elves, even if for a while, he would take it. And besides, perhaps it might lead him to Bilbo and Frodo.  
  
Gandalf smiled and gave an understanding nod, rising to his feet and gesturing to a handful of elves that were standing by, and in short order Sam's things were being carried behind the procession that consisted of himself, Gandalf, Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond, as they guided him through the impressive city (if not slightly _o_ ppressive, with how big and towering it was over a small creature such as Sam). They strolled down several magnificent boulevards and smaller streets that were constantly interspersed with gardens filled with flowers and trees of types he had never seen before. He'd predicted West of the Sea there might be no, or very few plants that grew in Middle-earth, and had brought with him a bounty of seeds from home in preparation for that, to plant in a bit of garden of his own, or even Mister Bilbo's and Mister Frodo's, if it please them.  
  
The walk somehow did not feel long nor tiring, and soon the stone roads and the city gave way to a path of dirt and grassy fields. The talk that was exchanged among Sam's companions included him (though he felt he did little more in reply than stutter), but was of no great importance, and merely idle chatter.  
  
Soon enough they veered on to a footpath that lead inland, towards a patch of forest, and a short time later, on the peak of a gentle hill, was a small, but homely cottage surrounded by a cheerful little garden, and a pond was not far off. Sam was initially puzzled by the wonder of whose residence this might be, until a whinny echoed over the grass, and a cadence of hoof-beats came up to meet them. Like a cloud across the meadow, Shadowfax - still somehow in his prime, it seemed - ran to greet Gandalf and his companions, the magnificent horse bobbing his head to each, and affectionately bumping Sam's chest with his nose. The hobbit had never met the fine creature on the Quest, and had only been able to spend time with him on the return journey home, but during that time, grew quite fond of him, and was incredibly pleased to see him once more.  
  
"Home again." Gandalf murmured to himself, approaching the front door to the cottage and turning to Sam. "If it's alright, Samwise, we thought for you to stay with me for a time, until you were settled, and felt ready for a residence of your own to be built?"  
  
Sam was struck with an objection to something in that query, but not wanting to stir trouble, nodded. "Aye, that'd be fine; thank'ee kindly, Mister Gandalf, Sir."  
  
"Simply Gandalf will suffice, Sam." the wizard chuckled.  
  
While Sam's things were then brought in to the cottage, and the hobbit busied himself with rubbing Shadowfax behind the ears, Galadriel and Elrond bowed once more, and made to depart. "We shall meet again soon, Master Samwise. It is my hope you settle well, here." Elrond took a respectful step back for Galadriel, whose expression had grown somber.  
  
"We wish the best for you, Samwise, though I fear there are some things beyond even our hands. Fare well."  
  
The Lord and Lady departed, then, followed by the elves that had carried Sam's things, leaving the hobbit startled and no little bit of jarred, as if the Lady had just reached in to his soul and given it a good shake. He wanted to know the meaning of her words, and resigned to ask Gandalf if he knew.  
  
In spite of Sam's offer to help, Gandalf insisted on making tea for them himself, while he pointedly settled Sam in the garden (on top of a few pillows, to bolster his small height on the big furniture) to observe the flowers and mind Shadowfax's requests for attention. "The older he gets, the more he needs to be indulged, it seems." the wizard commented of the horse, shaking his head. "Well, that's what he would have you believe, in any case."  
  
Sam had been making a list in his head of all the qualities of the various plants to ask after as the tea was prepared, and it was already a lengthy one by the time Gandalf emerged with a silver tray, tea for two upon it. The wizard could not deny Sam's help with arranging things on the table between their seats, and the hobbit was grateful he had been given a hobbit-sized teacup as opposed to one meant for elves. Gandalf did win the silent debate over who would pour, as the pot was simply too big for Sam to manage easily.  
  
Gandalf posed a few polite questions, such as the quality of the journey, if Sam liked his first impression of the Isle, and throughout the wizard relented in giving Shadowfax a few cubes of sugar, but discouraged Sam from doing the same: "If he thinks he's able to ask it of anyone, there will be no end to whom he pesters, nor when."  
  
Though the conversation was lovely and Sam was overjoyed to speak with the wizard again after so long, there was a question he eventually could not contain any longer: "Beggin' your pardon, Mis-- Gandalf, but where might Mister Bilbo an' Mister Frodo be? I- I'd been hopin' maybe they'd be there at the dock, but I'm not hurt in the least if they're busy." After all, Sam had waited sixty years, what was a few hours or few days more?  
  
A sinking feeling dragged Sam's heart toward his feet when Gandalf's expression fell, and the wizard set aside his teacup with a clink. "I'm afraid Bilbo and Frodo are a bit busy as of now, Samwise. I have no doubt they'd love to see you, but they have gone on... Another of Bilbo's adventures."  
  
Shadowfax had stopped entreating for sugar, and the inky wells of his eyes seemed to grow sad as he nuzzled Sam's cheek. "Oh, I see, Sir. Gandalf!" That wasn't surprising; there was no sending word in advance when a ship would be leaving the Havens, and perhaps it hadn't gotten to the Bagginses yet that one had arrived. Bilbo still having a good hold of his wanderlust was no shock, either, nor Frodo following him. "Where is it they've gone, an' how long 'til they might be back?"  
  
"... I'm afraid... That it's quite a distance they've gone." Sam had grown quite used to the wizard's manner of not giving up every detail at once, but the lack of simple clarity to his answers was becoming disconcerting. "It was Bilbo that first wanted to leave, which I thought reasonable; he was quite ready for another adventure. Frodo, however... Frodo, in time, was ready, but not as I would've hoped." The wizard procured his pipe from a pocket of his robes, but only chewed upon the stem instead of lighting it. "You see, Samwise," he sighed, "try as I and others did to help him, Frodo did not find all of what he sought, here." Sam had been Mayor of the Shire for fifty years, and in that time written up more legal documents than he could recall. He noticed the change in tenses, and his unease did nothing but grow. "He found his peace, but I would not say he found his healing."  
  
Gandalf's eyes had begun to glitter, as with tears, and Sam was beginning to panic. "Gandalf- where, where is it the Bagginses have gone?"  
  
"They've gone away, Sam. There were small joys for Bilbo, here; he loved his gardening and stories and long wanders, yet Frodo... Frodo was unhappy, and try as we all did to help him find happiness... He could not find it, here. Bilbo has gone where the Eldar, Maia and Valar cannot follow; away from this world to a land which we do not know, and... And Frodo went with him. ... I am so very sorry, Sam... But they have passed away."  
  
There were no words in all the tongues of Arda fit to describe the magnitude of Sam's devastation. He thought his heart broken when Frodo had been felled by the foul Shelob, again when Frodo sailed away to Valinor, and finally when Rosie had passed away, leaving him on Mid-Year's Day. He had been fool enough to think hearts didn't break in the Blessed Realm, as they did in Middle-earth.  
  
They broke just the same, and worse.  
  
"I was and did all he said I ought!" Sam's world was a blur of tears as his heart fell to pieces and he blindly groped and held on to Shadowfax's mane, for any firm and real thing to hold. "He said I could follow someday, an' I did, after I stayed an' was whole for so long! I-I, I went all that way for him, to Mordor an' across the Sea, an'- an' I was _waiting for him_ , an'- an'- _he can't be gone!" I love him._ Sam wanted to say. _He's part of me. What am I without him? How can I ever be one and whole when both pieces of my heart have been taken from me?_ But the only sounds he could manage any longer were the agonized wails of one whose heart has been shattered.  
  
Sam didn't know when it was Gandalf had pulled him into a protective hug, but he held to the wizard in kind for all he was worth, muffling his sobs in the white robes while Shadowfax sorrowfully nosed his back.

  
\--  
  


The following days and weeks all blurred together in the same, continuous stream of numbness, Sam becoming something of Gandalf's second shadow, for the hobbit didn't know what else to do. He had tried weakly to invest himself in the flora to be found in the Blessed Realm, to make himself a little garden with his seeds from home, or to regularly attend the shows in the Cottage of Lost Plays, but... None of it seemed to have enough purpose to bother. Though Sam was surrounded with company at virtually all times, he still felt alone; the only person he ever felt comfortable with was Gandalf – otherwise, he felt so over his head with the elven folk he was frightened he might drown. There were no hobbits to share a smoke with and predict the weather or next harvest, no faunts or their faunts to play with and feel proud of, and only a pillow with which to share his large, empty bed. He was quite miserably alone.  
  
For what reason Sam hung on, he could not say. He lacked any real purpose, save, he supposed, to learn what he could of his master's mind before he left.  
  
There was a museum on the Isle, like the one that had been in Michel Delving, only this was so much bigger and grander, and held so much more history - practically that of the world. It had taken Sam several days to work his way through the most interesting parts, and it had been refreshing to find something to decidedly pay attention to. Coming, however, to the exhibit on the end of the Third Age nearly made him burst into tears there in public. There was of course an entire section dedicated to the War of the Ring, and its key participants, including the Nine Walkers and especially, of course, the Ring-bearers. A massive portrait for both Bilbo and Frodo had been made, modeled in person after they had reached the Undying Lands. Bilbo's appearance seemed to have only improved upon reaching the Lonely Isle, all youthful and smiling as his portrait appeared; a contrast to the Elvish vision of Frodo that had (now very, very shamefully) haunted Sam's dreams for so long, and now stared at him, unsmiling, from the canvas. His face had grown fine and chiseled with age, but the wrinkles had been fewer than Sam had imagined, and instead of a river of moonlight flowing down Frodo's shoulders, his hair was still primarily black-brown, with only the occasional shock of silver streaking through it. And in those immense watercolor eyes of his, Sam could see no happiness in the painting; only a clouded, milky film that gave no sense of joy or life at all. He was still so very beautiful, but in a lonely, distant way, and as before, when they returned to the Shire, Sam again could not reach him.  
  
Though Sam agreed to sit for a portrait of his own to match the Bagginses, he never entered the museum again to look at it.

  
\--  
  


Gandalf had some time ago made the offer to accompany Sam to the 'New End' - as it had been called when first built - for him to look about if he wished, and observe the way in which the Bagginses had lived all those years ago (it pained Sam more than he could say to think that he was _fifty-five_ years late to reunite with his master, and knowing he had thought Frodo alive that whole time). It was not until many months after his arrival, that Sam felt ready to have a look about. He had come to what peace - or at least, acknowledgment - that he could, that the only two kindred he'd had in this land were gone, and was ready to look at the last things they'd had around them, before they'd left.  
  
It was not Gandalf that accompanied him when he went to see it, however. It was the Lady Galadriel, of whom Sam still had the utmost respect, but now, he felt less as though he'd fall over when she simply looked at him. Perhaps his loss of any sense of direction in life is what made him less intimidated by the Eldar.  
  
It was a fair day, when they - the Lady of Lórien and the old Mayor of Michel Delving - went up the Hill overlooking the Sea, which had been burrowed into in classic Hobbit fashion, and made a dwelling for the two most famous halflings in history. It heartened Sam to see the door was as green as Bag End's had been back in the Shire, but that was the only joy he felt to look upon the place. The circular windows he could see were dusty and dim, the garden had long since withered and left twisted husks that swayed sadly whenever the breeze came by, and the grasses all around it were overgrown and wild.  
  
"It was preserved as immaculately as possible for the sake of history," Galadriel explained as they came to the door, "left as it was for fear of disturbing the memories it holds. A rare few are allowed within for the sake of research, but those are rare indeed."  
  
"Honored to be let in, Lady." Sam murmured, running his knobbly fingers down the door with a longing touch.  
  
"It had been my hope, once, that you would be able to enter here without a need for honor." Galadriel's voice held a wistful note as she inserted a key - bound around her wrist for safe keeping - into the lock of the door, turned it, and pushed it open. "Alas, it was not to be."  
  
Sunlight spilled into the foyer for perhaps the first time in decades, and Sam noted with an immediate sense of heartache that it seemed the whole interior was covered with a similar layer of film that had covered Frodo's eyes, only the smial was coated in years of dust, neglect and absence. Frodo's had been obscured by loneliness and loss of purpose.  
  
Sam was allowed in, first, his bare feet leaving tracks in the dust on the floor as he tentatively walked in, for the first time in months feeling near at home again, surrounded by curved architecture, furniture built with hobbits in mind, and no small bit of clutter, surely belonging- well, that is, surely having belonged, to Bilbo. At least one book was nearly on every table-like surface, and maps with trails marked in red ink were spread open here and there, too.  
  
As Sam made his way down the hall and wandered slowly into each room, considering them all carefully, it _nearly_ felt like being home, designed so much like the original Bag End as it was, but smaller, made at most for two resident hobbits, and only a guest or two at all times. To see the evidence that it _had_ been lived in, once, brought Sam a sense of familiarity and longing, but to see all of it covered in dust and left sitting for years hurt him. And to his worry, he identified most of the disorganized messes in the main rooms and master bedroom as Bilbo's, and... He did not see a scrap of Frodo's handwriting or a single book title out that he might've read for simple pleasure. In fact, there seemed to be a startling lack of any evidence relating to Frodo at all.  
  
Keeping the plan of the original Bag End in mind, Sam left the master bedroom and went to the next door on the left (for that was the side of the smial that had all of the windows), inspected it for any indication of personalization (at least Bilbo had written a few Elvish poem verses upon his door), found none, and tentatively pushed it open. It groaned and creaked sickeningly, echoing so loudly through the otherwise empty smial that it made Sam flinch. He stood a few moments at the threshold in silence, letting the reverberations of the door quiet, and his heart to brace itself at what it might find.  
  
Carefully, as if he were stepping onto eggshells, Sam passed into the room, and felt himself in another dwelling entirely. The angles of the room had been modified to appear much sharper and square, the furniture was decidedly more Elvish in fashion than Hobbitish, what with its elegant curves as opposed to rustic simplicity, and save for the layers of dust, the entire room was freakishly _neat. Nothing_ was out of place: every book was organized on a shelf somewhere in the room; quills and inkwells were primed and ready to use upon the desk (which itself was bare of any paper or projects), but untouched; the walls were devoid of any hobbitsh maps or paintings (only elegant murals showing great Elvish history); even the bed was made without a single wrinkle.  
  
It seemed so clinical and unlike Frodo (who Sam well knew had been almost as careless and disorganized as his uncle, once upon a time), that Sam felt dizzy with shock and was almost immediately trying to convince himself it _couldn't_ have been Frodo's room. Until he saw the Phial of Galadriel sitting lonely upon the nightstand, and Sam's heart broke anew for everything his master and friend had felt he lost when he sailed away. _Did he feel so unworthy of the Shire,_ Sam wondered dolefully, picking up the star-glass with trembling hands, _that he wouldn't let himself even live in a reminder of it?_ Gandalf had told him that Frodo had quickly discarded the proverbial 'skin' of a Hobbit and attempted to act as Elvish as he could, as quickly as he could, in spite of being unable to truly become one, either on the outside or in. _"Aiya Eärendil."_ Sam whispered, and a faint light began to glow from the glass, but obscured and dulled by the dust, which Sam dutifully began to wipe away. _Frodo, me dear... You thought yourself too hurt to live in the Shire, then too hurt to even be a hobbit any more. So hurt you couldn't be you._ A tear fell and shattered silently onto the star-glass. _You left me so I could be one an' whole, but_ you _never were whole again. After all you went an' did, an' already gave up, that- that just ain't fair..._ When or how Sam came to be seated on Frodo's old bed, clutching the phial and crying, he didn't know. _Maybe there weren't a thing I could do for you, an' I know you hurt too much to stay an' wait, but oh, Frodo, I wish you'd've let me try._  
  
At some point, Galadriel had entered the room, and seated herself beside Sam, bowing slightly to accommodate for the low ceiling. She gazed about without a word, giving Sam another few moments of quiet. "It is ever my sorrow that Frodo did not find his due happiness upon landing here, and that you should share a similar fate." Sam was only able to look up at her with misty eyes, and did not audibly reply. "The Eldar know best of all what has been done cannot be altered, and that Aman is not a blessed realm for all, even for the undying.” The Lady bowed her head, regret in her eyes as she looked at Sam. “What was given to the Ring-bearers was not what was deserved, but it is hoped this misdeed may be rectified.  
  
“We do not know what lies beyond the realm of this world, but we do know the future is never certain, until it is the past. Your future is not yet certain." Gently, Galadriel placed her hand atop Sam's, and the phial, and the hobbit's fingers slid away to pass the star-glass to her grasp. She gazed upon it, running her fingers along the grooves of the glass, and its glow brightened in her hand. "One of the mighty of my kin though I may be, I cannot call back mortals to this world once they have passed from it. However," her gaze flicked down to Sam, and he nearly started, "that does not mean I am all together powerless against the Unknown." She passed the phial back to Sam, who received it with tense hands. He swallowed, asking wordlessly for her to continue. "I fear I can offer no guarantees, but I can a blessing; a gift from the Valar to the Ring-bearers, for all they have done and did not receive in kind." Like water, she slid from Sam's side, and down to kneel before him, holding his small hands in hers. "When you feel it is your time to leave this world, Samwise, the Valar offer to you, through me, a blessing of binding," she touched the rope around Sam's wrist, "to bring you to whatever place Frodo has ended, beyond this world."  
  
The hobbit's expression changed in an instant from distraught and heartbroken to alarmed and hopeful beyond words. His old hands clutched at Galadriel's with such strength as he had not felt in his youth, and happy tears fell from his lashes. "L-Lady, do you really mean- really, for- for _me?"_  
  
He was graced with a splendid smile, and a nod, before Galadriel's face became serious again. "It will only extend as far as our power does, and cannot guarantee a reunion. If it does, I cannot say whether you will know or recognize each other. Nor is it known if you would encounter your wife, children or other loved ones; if it succeeded, it would only bring you to Frodo, not necessarily anyone else. Not even Bilbo. Could you accept those terms?"  
  
Sam had stiffened at the revelation it would be only Frodo he had a chance at finding. To have any chance at all of finding a loved one - and only _one_ of them, at that - suddenly brought a second edge to the offer, and Sam did not know if he'd like the feel of its cut. The glass rose in his pocket tapped gently against his chest with each beat of his heart, but the rope was still bound around his wrist and the phial burned bright in his hands. "What'll happen if I don't go with any blessin'?"  
  
"It is wholly unknown."  
  
Sam ran his fingers along the soft rope around his wrist, which Galadriel had given him back when Lothlórien had still stood, tall and prosperous and the greatest elf-kingdom in Middle-earth. That which had in part carried himself and Frodo through Emyn Muil, and Sam had cut from the rest of the length to tie around Frodo to keep his elvish cloak around him in Mordor. He knew he had already said farewell to Rosie, and come to peace with her death, then he had left the Shire because he knew his children did not need him anymore. Frodo, he would dare think, he still had unfinished business with - if nothing else, he needed to give him a proper goodbye, as he'd believed the one they'd exchange at the Havens would not be their last. And- Sam had followed after his master near his whole life. To go changing a lifelong habit, now, at his age? Silly. That, and it seemed mighty rude to turn down a blessing from the Valar themselves. "To be with- with Mister Frodo again, why, I'd appreciate it much, Lady. Th-thank'ee, an' the Valar, too. Thank'ee very much."  
  
Galadriel smiled again, and nodded. "It is fair, for those that did so much, and received so little." She found Sam's hands again, securing them in her own, before closing her eyes, and whispering words in a fair tongue Sam did not understand. When she opened them, she leaned forward and placed a kiss upon Sam's brow, and thereafter departed in a flowing river of white silks, leaving Sam alone, and feeling unchanged, save for a sense of peace, and hope.

  
\--  
  


Another few weeks slid by, but with a few more distinctions than previous. Sam had been given a bit of earth in the public gardens to plant his imported seeds and give the elves care instructions for them, as well as a spot near Gandalf's cottage for a patch of Old Toby. He found himself a purpose, in those days, and was content to fulfill the little goals he could find about the Isle.  
  
On one particular evening, the wizard and Sam shared a fine meal, and together smoked the very last of Gandalf's Shire-grown pipeweed, talking long into the night about the Shire, loved ones left behind, and dearly held old memories. Following that, they bid goodnight, and Sam retired to bed, and as he slept, he had his first dream in months that was not in some way torturous or lonely.  
  
His first thought was how _young_ he felt: no aches or pains anywhere, and to look down at his hands and feet, and feel his face, was simply startling. There were no wrinkles or visible veins, and the fur on his feet was no longer frizzy and grey; rather the soft, honey-blonde curls they had once been in his youth. What was beneath his feet was soft earth that carved its way through as a path amid fallen leaves of autumn, which stirred with each little breeze and sent them dancing over Sam's feet, tickling a little as they went. The forest around him was tall and alive, the branches overhead covered in the reds, yellows and golds of fall, and the twittering of birds echoed above him. He started a bit and had to shoulder his pack when a pair of melodious voices - certainly belonging to no bird - were carried on the wind to his ears, from around the bend in the path ahead of him. His heart soared with recognition and his eyes brimmed with tears, and before he knew quite what he was doing, he was running ahead and crying, "Mister Frodo, Mister Bilbo, wait, please! I've come so far to find you! Don't go leavin' me again!"  
  
...  
  
"Oh, hullo, Sam! Do you know how I've missed you?"


End file.
